My lover P is a professor and I am a student, thousands of miles away from each other. And so we often can’t help thinking of what would happen should we be at the same university, and I were in his class. Naturally.

This is one possibility:

I’ve been in your class since September, and I’ve been wanting to fuck you at least that long. I’d seen you around campus and was intrigued, and now that I’ve had your class and listened to you speak, read your work–I’m completely captivated. I’ve been cumming to thoughts of you since September, and sometimes I wonder if you can tell. I don’t think so. I never miss a chance to raise a good objection in class, and wonder if you know that this intellectual sparring also makes my panties damp. Yet even as I challenge you I’m always wondering to what extent your passion for ideas, your talk about ‘desire’ in class, translates into the other more carnal realm –if you’re this passionate in the classroom, how passionate would you be in bed, I wonder? And it makes my knees weak.

I want so badly to fuck you, I want to see what you can teach me there.

But I’ve not acted on it yet. I wouldn’t whilst class was going on. Not just because you could lose your job, but because I don’t want this intellectual experience contaminated for me. I’m going to get an A from you because I’m your best student. And I want you to think I’m fucking brilliant, as I think you are, before we find out how brilliantly we may fuck.

So when I’ve come to your office hours I’ve always made certain that I have a good question, a good topic, but this hasn’t stopped me from making sure I wear something low-cut, so that as I bend to take notes you won’t be able to avoid seeing my breasts.

And I love this heady mix of intellectual excitement and lust that I feel. To talk about desire while feeling it so strongly. . .bliss.

I’m afraid to start something with you, though I long to. I can’t imagine propositioning you in your office, so, after long debate, I scribble my phone number and “call me” and my initial, O, at the end of the last paper I turn in to you on the last day, 8th December. I can’t quite believe my nerve, and I imagine that, at worst, it’ll be an amusing story for you to tell. At best…

My flatmate leaves town today, as do many students, and I decide to stay here in this college town for another week, to see if you call. And you do.

My heart pounds, but I try to remain calm. You must know I want you now, but I can’t just proposition you. I can’t be sure, after all, what you know, and what you want. If you want. I have (of course!) a plausible sort of intellectual topic to discuss—as always, and its not a false one, it is something I’m interested in, as ever in our discussions—and I suggest we meet for a drink to discuss it. I suggest a place that’s nice, and dark, and generally unpopulated by students, especially now.
I hope you’re also getting the other message I’m telegraphing, that this means we’d be meeting somewhere where you’d be safe. If.

But what you don’t know is that its also conveniently located very near to my flat. And that what I’m going to be wearing as I wait for you will leave you no doubt about my true intentions, the moment you see me there, tucked away in a dark corner booth in this intimate bar.

I’m waiting now. I’m terribly nervous; my mouth is dry and the crotch of my pantyhose are damp, and I got here early to compose myself, and have a drink to lower my inhibitions. I get a bottle of wine for the table, casting caution to the winds, and I pretend to concentrate on my book as I wait. Both so that men will be less inclined to hit on me as I wait here alone, and so that you will have a chance when you get here to observe me without me seeing you.
To see this low-cut black dress I’m wearing, my crossed legs in their sheer dark stockings, the high boots I’m wearing, with their high heels.

I’m not wearing panties.

I try to focus…and it’s worked, I don’t know how long you’ve been here, but you smile down at me—and I know from your smile that you do know exactly what ive been intending—and say,
“great dress O.”
“It clings to you in all the right places”
And your admiring gaze runs all over me, as you’ve never permitted it to do before. Letting me know you see me, want me. It’s like a touch, like being stroked, the way you’re looking at my body.
I don’t know what to say, –this transition much longed for had left me breathless.
And more so when you slide into the booth alongside me.
I can feel your thigh alongside mine.
I want to press against it, but I don’t yet.

You reach for the wine and I see your hand tremble slightly as you fill your glass and top off mine. You’re nervous too?
And we talk for a while, but the inhibitions are coming down, and the way we’re looking at each other, our faces and bodies so close together now, we can’t concentrate.

And then finally your hand, underneath the tabletop, comes to rest on my thigh, stroking it through the sheer black nylon where my skirt’s ridden up.

I gasp a bit, at this first touch, and can’t help leaning back a bit in the booth. Parting my legs for you a little and arching my black. You can see my hard nipples poke against the thin fabric, know they ache for your touch. Your fingers, your tongue…I’m afraid to breathe even, lest you should stop.
You don’t. Your hand wanders up my leg a bit, emboldened by my reaction, your fingers on my inner thigh, gently tracing there, stroking there.
I can feel that im getting wetter, soaking my pantyhose already.
You move closer to me and suddenly kiss my neck softly, and I can’t help moaning softly when I feel your mouth there, feel the warmth and wetness, and your hot breath.

Your hand slides up even higher, and your tongue traces my throat and you murmur my name, and then. “You know, I’ve wanted you since the first day of class.”

Desire floods me, overwhelms me, and I don’t care anymore what you might think. I take your hand in mine and slide it up my thigh, under my skirt, and press two of your fingers against the crotch of my pantyhose. Against me. I know you can feel the dampness there and the heat radiating, as you catch your breath, bite your bottom lip to keep from making more noise, attract attention to us here. I whisper teasingly, but you can hear the desire in my voice, “can you feel how wet I’ve been for you, all semester?’

You laugh softly and nod, caressing my wet, soft mound, relishing this obvious evidence of my desire for you. My excitement.
“Yes,” you say, and I’m driven wild, maddened by your touch, so afraid someone will see, but I don’t care. Just so long as you don’t stop; don’t stop… “and you have no idea how much I want to taste that hot, wet cunt of yours.”
I’m thrilled and ashamed and excited all at once, that you’re talking to me this way. I love it though, I love it.

Your hand leaves me though, and goes to your pocket. I don’t know what you have in mind, when you bring it out, but its your pocket knife, and I hold my breath as you gently, discreetly, and very carefully cut a hole in my pantyhose, right where there’re wettest. Hooray for the Boy Scouts of America, and their motto ‘be prepared’!, I inwardly cheer, and make a solemn oath on the spot to all women, to send any sons I may someday have to join them.

I’m powerless to stop you, and I’m ashamed—someone might see! But I also don’t want you to stop—but no, we’re covered by the table, as your hand returns. To my—cunt. As you’re teaching me now to call it. Wriggling your fingers through the rent, wet hose, I catch my breath, but your fingers now are where I’ve longed for so long to have them be, on my naked, wet, shaven pussy, and your mouth is devouring my neck, my ears. I lean back against the booth, trembling, eyes closing in ecstasy, as your fingers gently trace my wet slit, not opening me yet.

Then you bring your fingers up to my face suddenly, tracing my lips, smearing my own juices on them and then on your own, as you lean over to kiss me at last, taste me at last.

And then you whisper in my ear, “O, your pussy tastes even better than I’d imagined.”
And your hand goes back, underneath the table, your fingers parting my slit now, stroking my labia, seeking out my clit with surety.

I can’t bear it any longer! I say, low, pleading, “Please, P, please, take me home and fuck me there, I need to have you. I need to taste your cock.”
“yes,” you say,
“in a moment.”
And your fingers are suddenly inside me. Pushing into me the way I need your cock to, your tongue.
You kiss me again, muffling my moan, and my mouth opens eagerly for you, just as my pussy is, wanting your tongue, wanting to be penetrated by you.
We kiss passionately, while discreetly your fingers are fucking me, right here, in the pub.

And now I can’t bear it, my head is swimming, and I need to be touching you, I run my hand up your own leg, towards the bulge in your pants, needing to feel your cock. I can’t believe you are doing this to me here, in the pub, in public….though I have fantasized many times in many ways about fucking you this semester, I hadn’t pictured this scenario. I glimpse other unknown pleasures ahead, more teachings about desire, and I surrender. Always.

O

My lover P has asked me to tell him everything; all my sexual history, and I do. Just as he shares his with me. This is part of what I told him, and then what follows is the fantasy we created and came to on the phone together.

P: God why didn’t we know each other then??!! I want to catch you masturbating in the girls room of your high school
And watch you… (Eros, Logos http://www.mycyberaffair.blogspot.com )

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I leave my theology class, asking permission like the good Catholic girl I am. Always good on the outside, though I know myself to be dirty within. The teachers love me, I’m always the one with the answers, and so sometimes when I’m really bored I’ll just ask for permission to leave. I always get it.
Sometimes I wander around the school for an extra few minutes. Sometimes I leave notes in my friends lockers. Sometimes I stand outside their classrooms where they can see me but the teacher can’t, and make faces to make them laugh.
And sometimes, like now, I go to the girl’s room because I have to cum.

Because I know I’m really a bad girl. I’m 15 and I’ve been touching myself every night for years, and I have to cum every night.
Sometimes more than that. A lot of times, actually. Once I made myself cum five times in a row, on a weekend, jeans around my ankles, hand inside my wet panties.
Sometimes I lock myself in the bathroom at home when I get out of school, to cum, because I can’t wait.
I don’t think I feel bad about this or sinful . . . but I do feel ashamed. I know none of my friends do this. I can just tell from the way they talk about boys.

And sometimes I can’t wait til I’m out of school, and I have to cum here.
And it gives me a dirty thrill, leaving my class where the priest is talking about virtue, to make myself cum in the bathroom, and when I realize this I do feel shamed.
He’s pretty young, in his 30’s I’d guess, and sometimes when I cum I think of him fucking me. And then I know, I know I’m going to hell! But I can’t help it.

The halls are empty, my footsteps echo, and my breathing is already light and quick when I push open the bathroom door, hoping I’ll be alone.
I am.

I go to the stall furthest from the door, my favorite for when I cum here. The locks are all broken, and if someone does come in, I think that will give me enough time to be safe.

And once I’m in there I sigh with relief, and pleasurable anticipation. Now!

Mmmm…I love this, pulling up my plaid skirt, sliding my hand at last into my cotton panties. I lean against the wall of the stall, my knees weak. I’m already wet, my clit swollen, and I know I could cum quickly, but I want to hold off a bit, tease myself, the way I imagine a lover would.
My other hand slips inside my white cotton blouse, to squeeze my nipple, and I make myself gasp.
The insides of my thighs are trembling. I close my eyes and imagine someone fucking me against the wall, lifting me up, oh I’d wrap my legs around him!
I think of the boy who begged me to suck his cock—I wouldn’t—but I love to imagine that I did, imagine what that would be like, and it always makes me cum.
A moan escapes me, I try but too late to catch it, and I know I’ll cum soon,
and I’m so lost in sensation, drowning, that I don’t hear the door opening, the soft footsteps stealthily approaching.
Until the door of this stall is thrown open and I’m caught—
I recognize you, you’re a senior, and you stand there gaping at me, taking me in.
Oh god I’m so ashamed! Found like this, blouse pulled open and skirt pulled up, hand deep inside my soaked panties, no doubt about what I’ve been doing.
But I love the way you’re looking at me! The way your eyes are all over me.

I can see that you’re hard, I’m watching your cock swell in your trousers .Oh god!
And then you smile, and I’m frightened, ashamed, thrilled.
“you have to have it, don’t you.”
I can’t speak.
You rub your cock, and then, looking me straight in the eyes, still smiling, you say,
“Get on your knees.
I want you to suck my cock.”
And you start to unzip your fly.

I can’t move.
You gently put a hand on my shoulder, pushing me down, while pulling your cock out.
“You know you want to.”
And I do. I do!! You know I do.
I get on my knees and open my mouth. I cant help it, because you’re right, I do want to.

You shudder when my lips close around you, encircling the head, when I lay my tongue along you, tasting you.
Suddenly your hands are in my hair, gripping, pushing your cock deeper into me, forcing it down my throat. Moaning, you say,” I’m going to fuck your mouth”
And you do. I love it! Oh god, I cant help sliding my hand back into my panties, whimpering, while you gag me with your cock. I love it, I do, I want to take it.
“You dirty fucking slut”, you whisper, it echoes off the tile.
“That’s right, play with yourself, you whore, you love it.”
“You love to suck cock, don’t you?” you say, and I do, you’re right, I always knew I would.
Loving the way you’re thrusting into my throat, the way your cock tastes, feels on my tongue, in my throat.
Mmmm, so lovely, how a cock feels, so soft and hard all at once.
I’m so wet and you know, can hear, can see me frantically fucking myself.
“Cum” you say hoarsely, “cum, cum like the slut I know you are”
“I’m going to cum, im going to fill your throat, drink it, take it all”
And you grab the back of my head, making me take all of you, I’m gagging but I want it, your cum pouring down my throat over my tongue. You groan, shooting, and I cant help it, I’m cumming too, helplessly, all over my hand ,while you fuck my mouth, and you know I’m cumming, that I love what we’ve done, that I love your cum. That im cumming because I love sucking your cock. I am your whore. Use me…
Your hands still in my hair, loosening your grip now.
I can breathe again, a little, but I drink every drop, clean you with my tongue.
Collapse sitting on the floor now, legs too weak after cumming so hard. I close my eyes, so ashamed.
I hear you zipping up, I hear your footsteps walking away, I don’t look .The door opens and softly closes, and I can’t believe what I’ve just done.

What were you doing in here anyway now, you should be in class, and why the girl’s room? I realize later that you’re like me, you needed to cum, and you like jerking off in the girl’s room. Maybe you were hoping to find a slut like me, or for me to find you. You get turned on at the risk, like me.

Slowly my breathing returns to normal, slowing down, like my heart rate.
Maybe you won’t tell anyone, maybe you’ll be ashamed too, keep my secret? I can’t hope for that…

But then I hear the door open again, and your whisper,
“Tomorrow, 11:15, ok?” Hopeful, yearning, unsure.

I say the only thing I’m ever to be capable of saying to you:
“Yes.”

O